


The Rites of Winter

by OceanofNoise



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Pittsburgh Penguins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 05:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceanofNoise/pseuds/OceanofNoise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evgeni Malkin outlines how he is totally not gay (especially not for Sidney Crosby), even if the world doesn't believe him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rites of Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Although it doesn't configure too much in the story, I just wanted to mention that this does not follow a specific season's schedule. May as well create a fake schedule for a fake story, right? ^_^

Sometimes Evgeni Malkin thinks the world is mocking him.

He must have been some sort of serial killer in a past life. Coz this is just not fair. He doesn’t even believe in karma, but he’s pretty much exhausted every other explanation. He knew there was a catch to why he happened to be talented in the sport of hockey. He’s tempting fate. Or maybe this is the world punishing him for not following his expected career path (which was probably in the illegal trafficking of narcotics and/or stolen goods).

He’s tried to make up for it by pulling his weight, for the team, for the management, for the community in both Pittsburgh and Magnitogorsk. Why else would he be sitting in a cheap plastic chair constructed without any consideration of ergonomics while making a half concerned effort to smile at the waves of fans that come and go with an autograph of their star forward?

And of course it’s a girl (at least he assumes so by the high frequency of her voice, all the faces and genders have pretty much blended into one faceless crowd) who says it. Stirring up shit like always.

Just as this person departs into the very ephemeral part of his brain she blurts, “I think if you and Sidney Crosby had sex together it would be really hot” before dashing off into the mob, out of personal responsibility.

The reasonable few groan in disgust, a select few whistle and catcall, with the majority left not responding at all in awkward association. He tries not to acknowledge it himself, but that doesn’t stop his face from reddening into a harsh blush and his fingers from betraying his otherwise fluid penmanship.

Fuck.

 

Evgeni wakes up to a new day in a new city and scoffs at what had poisoned his mind the afternoon before. Ridiculous proposal. What does a stupid fangirl know about his life?

Breakfast. He moves along the line at the hotel’s dining hall. He skips the toast. Piles on the scrambled eggs. Passes on the bacon. Doesn’t like the stuff. Doesn’t even like pork in general. But pork sausage he will eat. He likes breakfast sausage. Like is an understatement. He fucking loves the stuff.

When he sits down with his tray across from Nealer, the winger wrinkles his nose. “S’at all you’re eating for breakfast?”

Evgeni takes a good glance at his tray. “Oh. Forgot milk.” He thinks milk is all right. He’s more indifferent towards it, drinks it more for the nutrition.

He sets a carton of two percent beside his plate and wolfs down the eggs before savouring each oily bite of pork sausage.

Craig Adams this time narrows his eyes. “What are you doing?”

Evgeni stops in mid chew, baffled at the inquiry. “Eating,” he replied after reconfiguring the food in his mouth so that chunks didn’t spew out as he spoke. “What else do I look?”

Craig scrutinizes his face. “It looks like you’re enjoying that sausage way too much.”

He is. So what? It’s delicious!

Craig wipes his mouth with his napkin and stands up to clear his tray while Evgeni tears open the carton and brings the spout to his mouth. He moves out of view, and Evgeni’s eyes find themselves focusing on Sidney, a table over. He’s sipping on chocolate milk (where did he get that?) through a straw and has the newspaper spread out in front of him. Duper gingerly slides the Arts and Entertainment section out a few piles in. Sidney barely flinches, completely engrossed in the back sports pages. He takes another long sip of chocolate milk, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down—

Evgeni hears a few titters around him. He looks around. Swallows his mouthful of milk. “What so funny?”

Flower and Nealer snicker. And when he lowers his carton to eye-level, he sees it: his two percent milk boasting the claim that it “Tastes like homo!”

“Immature,” Evgeni scolds them as he slams the carton down and grabs the closest newspaper to bury his head in it. But that doesn’t stop the blood circulating vigorously at his face. There’s also a cold stream of milk that’s continued running down his chest that he still hasn’t wiped.

Fuck.

 

He’s glad to be home now, in his own house, the surroundings that he has created for himself. All in all, he’d say that he was a pretty normal guy. Not one for luxurious extravagances. 

But he does insist on a colour-complementing environment. If he had more time, he would probably repaint his place more often. Rearrange the furniture just for the sake of change. A living space should be a reflection of the owner, right? A little variety never hurt anyone. So yeah, he likes a living environment with nice décor.

Did he just use the word décor?

It suddenly dawns on him. The way he spent hours labouring over what colour to paint his walls, how he called several people for their opinion on the subject matter, how he had two different interior designers come up with elaborate proposals, how he ultimately disregarded all their opinions because they obviously did not have the taste and flair for interior—er, spatial engineering like himself.

Oh who is he kidding?

Fuck.

 

Whatever. These are not his insecurities. He’d just go about his business as it were. His house, his rules.

And he loved his bedroom. And his bed. Ah, it’s gorgeous. A good mattress is important, especially to someone who doesn’t get a great amount of time to sleep. Like they say, start with the net and work outside, right? That’s how he feels about the mattress.

But other than that, there’s the closet. He loves his closet. The clothes make the man, they say. Or as Evgeni likes to say more, the man makes the clothes.

When you’re a public figure, your image (and by proxy your personal style) is spotlighted, and he wouldn’t call it vain that he does put some effort into his appearance. When someone does have as much money as he does, it's just inevitable that he would spend that money on clothes.

It's odd to admit, but he even enjoys the occasional suit. Like he said, he isn’t one for extravagant luxuries but even still, once presented with them on a regular basis, it's difficult to let them go. And he likes the way a nicely tailored suit makes him look. Sharp and spiffy, immaculate and impregnable. That's what a good suit does.

He has them in every expected colour, every shade of dark blue, grey, black, even brown. And conventions aside, he does like his brown suit. It’s crisp and different. More like a light brown-grey with faint specks of gold. What a pretty colour. But a hazel suit was probably a little too avant garde, and even someone like himself who isn’t afraid to do daring things had shoved that hazel suit to the deepest compartment of his closet, lest anyone attempt to dig out any skeletons.

But seriously, he really likes how it matched his favourite pairs of loafers. He's always meticulous about matching his colours because he doesn’t want to look like a fucking fashion disaster.

Wait, what?

Fuck.

 

All right. Fuck that feminine bullshit. Evgeni is a man, damn it all, and a professional athlete at that. If that isn’t masculine then he doesn’t know what is. And he has his gear bag to prove it.

It smells rancid up close, like any gear bag does. And he loves that. He doesn’t need to go through all his manly belongings in order to bolster his self-esteem, but he’s going to do it anyway.

Oh hey, wait a minute, there’s another bag tucked into his gear bag. Ah, he remembers it. It’s where he keeps all his body butters and hair products. Exercise and wintertime does wreak havoc on general grooming, so Evgeni knows to combat these ailments with moisturizing shampoos (two bottles to remind himself to repeat the rinsing cycle) and fortifying conditioner (always condition, oh my God he could never understand why some people would actually shampoo without any conditioner to help keep the hair soft and shiny, it’s their own hair funeral if they skipped this step… wait if hair is already... you know what, never mind). And the “Crème de Corps” help stop the itchy cracks on his skin and maintain that supple, baby-smooth freshness that he loves. Plus, the body butter smells great. Ahh, honey. He loves the smell of honey. And peaches—

Fuck!

 

Okay so fine. He likes his environment to be aesthetically pleasing and visually balanced. And he is concerned over his appearance. And he likes to feel pampered, inside and out. So what? That doesn’t make him like, fucking gay or anything. People are so insecure about themselves, Evgeni really does feel sorry for them.

He sits down on the bench at the CONSOL to get ready for the game, his manly game with fighting and slashing and tons of guys shooting at each other. A wayward knee (bare, by the way) bumps into his. It’s not often that Sidney has direct skin-on-skin contact with anyone.

“Sorry,” is Sidney’s absentminded apology before retracting said knee.

Evgeni hiccups.

So he has run into a dry spell. He can’t make those spectacular moves like he used to. The game isn’t fun anymore.

“What’s wrong, Geno?” Flower asks him at the worst of the depression. And he really doesn’t know how to answer that. Well, not in a way that was in line with common decency.

Fucking Sidney Crosby.

So Evgeni could blame the team captain that is actually more superhuman at times than a mere mortal hockey player. Stupid polite Canadian with his stupid soft voice and his stupid plush lips and his stupid pert ass and his stupid pretty eyes. God.

Okay, so he isn’t totally ugly. He could agree with the fangirls there. And his awkwardness is sort of endearing at times. These are just general observations. The fact that he notices doesn’t make him some sort of flaming fruit bag or something.

But his brain must have short-circuited because now that he has noticed them he can’t help but notice them constantly… and then noticing new things that he can’t stop thinking about. Like seriously, what the hell?

And then even worse, his brain has started to betray him by having… dreams. Like erotic ones. They aren’t even realistic! There’s no way Sid could ever be that good at giving head! He’s never considered himself an intelligent person, but did his subconsciousness actually think any of the stuff is going to happen? Because it seems to believe so and consequently sends some messages down around his unmentionables because he has woken up with a certain amount of dampness down there recently.

This really warrants a what the flying fuck?

And it really doesn’t help that he has been assigned Sid as his roommate for the next road game swing. It’s all Brent Johnson’s fault. After he went on IR they had to pull up an AHL goalie with almost no NHL experience, and after several roommate shuffles later everyone seemed fine with the fact that Evgeni would bunk with Sid, not that anyone had asked him.

It isn’t even like Sidney is all that attractive. He’s just a regular guy, like all the other regular guys on them team. So what if there were countless signs in the arena by fans declaring their love and/or desire to marry Sidney at any given home (or even away) game? They’re girls. They don’t know enough about men to really make a good judgment on a guy’s appearance just by the very fact that they aren’t one. He’s a guy so he could determine who was good-looking and Sidney was definitely too pretty to be that.

Evgeni throws his bags onto the closest bed to assert his territory in the hotel room (a very masculine gesture, if he does say so himself) and declares to his roommate “I go to get lobster sub.”

“Okay.” Sidney sets his bag on the dresser.

“…Do you want too?”

“No thanks.”

“…How about lobster bisque?”

“I’m not really hungry right now.”

Fine. So Evgeni goes to his favourite Boston sandwich shop with Jordy instead. They talk about football and manly shampoo and staying regular on the road.

The game itself isn’t anything memorable. They win 4-2. He isn’t anything stellar on the ice, but a win was a win so he has no complaints. Tomorrow morning they’d be flying to Philadelphia (yuck) to face the Flyers and Evgeni is definitely not looking forward to that. And they’d be touching down before noon for an early afternoon skate so of course they expect all their players straight to bed after reaching their hotel room.

Sidney seems to fall asleep the moment his head hits the pillow. Evgeni has never told anyone, but he sort of envies the people who could do that, he who has his own troubles with insomnia, he who has recently been wracked by disturbing thoughts. Oh not tonight, oh please mother of God, not tonight…

“Zhenya…”

Evgeni refocuses his eyes straight ahead, where Sidney has somehow crawled in without his notice, arms and legs spread out and planted at each corner. And Evgeni thinks he’s made some sort of sound in response because his muscles have tightened to the point where they refuse to budge.

Sidney climbs forward with an expression on his face that Evgeni had never seen, had never though capable from docile little Sid. “You know,” he begins as he strokes around Evgeni’s chest up and down through the blanket. “I’ve been wondering when we’d become roommates.”

Evgeni gulps and his blood rushes south in a rather painful manner. “You did?” He voice doesn’t crack in the least.

Sidney nods slowly, his eyes emitting a light on their own, watching him, never leaving him. He leans forward so that their bodies are flush parallel (and a sort of “oof” sound escapes Evgeni). He slides down, pulls the duvet along with him and slowly begins to work at the buttons of Evgeni’s pyjama top. “I’ve wanted you for a long time.” The buttons are now undone and Sidney pushes each side out of the way, exposing Evgeni’s bare chest. He moans and arches up when he feels a hot, moist mouth land on his erect nipple and begin to nip, suck, swirl—

Evgeni’s eyes spring open and all he sees is the wall in front of him, barely lit by what little light filters through the window curtain. To his right he can hear the soft snoring of his roommate. And just a little south he can feel his little general up like a stick in the mud.

Not the fuck again.

 

Things aren’t really too awkward the next morning. It’s not like Sidney can read minds and he doesn’t think he heard Evgeni clamour into the bathroom, step into the bathtub and shut the curtain behind him to finish off. At least, he hopes not.

But finally he’s had enough. It’s probably a better idea to confront him after the three game road swing but Evgeni Malkin is not a patient person.

He grabs Sidney to a stop as he begins to head out the door for breakfast. “Okay,” Evgeni begins determinedly. “We need do something. Get over with.”

Sidney looks up, completely bewildered and a little flustered, with his mouth just slightly agape while he stares at Evgeni with his doe eyes. Half the time Evgeni wonders if Sidney does this on purpose. “What are you talking about?”

Evgeni grabs Sidney by the other arm so that they’re face to face. “We do this now. Be bad at it. Then we never have to do again.”

“Wh—“ Sidney’s startled outburst is cut off when Evgeni kisses him.

What sucks for Evgeni is that it doesn’t. In fact, he rather enjoys it, and he probably should have pulled away at least ten seconds ago but it’s kind of nice. That should have been expected, those plush lips teasing him for God knows how long. He’d have to ask Sidney what kind of soap or body wash or lotion he used to smell as fresh as he does.

Their lips finally do part when Sidney pulls away, eyes wide, almost unreadable, but if Evgeni does hazard a guess, he’d say it was a mix of curiosity, intrigue and maybe even a dash of desire. Evgeni impulsively leans in again but Sidney retracts, just slightly, biting his already swollen lower lip. “W-we should go get our breakfast.”

Evgeni lowers his hands, which had on their own volition found their way around Sidney’s waist and nods numbly.

It’s a stroke of luck that Kuni and Duper are standing by the elevator, waiting to descend down to the dining hall like them. It saves them an awkward ride in an enclosed space alone together and at this point Evgeni doesn’t fully trust himself to not try again. His lips still tingle and his tongue feels ready for more foreplay.

Duper eyes them both. “Are you two okay? You both look like you’ve just seen a monster or something.”

Well. There was a monster. Somewhere.

In any case they sit with their respective groups and eat their respective breakfasts. He doesn’t see much of Sidney throughout the day in fact. Sure, they do a bit of side-by-side standing for a few minutes and practically have to work at being out of the other’s eye line, but other than that, there’s no lingering awkwardness.

The game is a disaster, or would be, if his head was where it should have been. He hasn’t scored in the past three games and the streak remains intact that night. He doesn’t know what to do at this point, and when the coach signals Evgeni out to relieve him he’s glad of the towel he buries his face in to hide all of his uncertainties.

They don’t say a single word to each other on the way up to the hotel, or when they get in. They both avoid eye contact, although Evgeni steals glances at Sidney when he knows that the other man isn’t looking. The whole situation is so awkward and unbearable that he wishes that he could just punch a hole in the wall or jump out the window merely to alleviate the tension levels.

Sid’s sitting stiffy on his own bed, still fully dressed while reading a book. Evgeni’s too scared to even turn on the TV so he mumbles quietly something about going to bed early. Even that is awkwardly transparent, since their flight out the next day is in the afternoon. He crawls under the sheets and buries his head against his pillow while breathing slow and evenly. A few minutes later he hears the lamp flick off and some rustling as Sidney settles into his own bed.

He can’t sleep though. He chastises himself: what the fuck did he just do today to fuck up a relationship with his captain. What happened wasn’t supposed to happen and if he had just laughed it off and not indulged his moronic fantasies like he always seems to do—

And oh, right on cue, he feels the bed sinks just to his right. Evgeni’s eyes open and refocus on the figure just to his immediate right. Who else would be it but Sidney, sitting carefully on the edge of the mattress, leaning ever so slightly forward with a bitten lower lip and soft, anxious hazel eyes searing a hole directly at his heart?

So, whatever, Evgeni will indulge his stupid head’s moronic fantasies. It’s not like it’ll make a difference either way. So he does what he always does when he has an erotic dream about Sidney. He collects Sidney into his arms and gently kisses him.

And it’s nice. It lasts longer than ten seconds this time, and when they do part, it’s just to catch their breaths and they’re at it again, Evgeni being a little more forceful with his tongue and tasting the faint fresh mint of Colgate Total. And normally at this part of his dream Evgeni would begin to unbutton Sidney’s nightshirt with his teeth but he’s actually wearing a t-shirt this time so Evgeni makes the adjustment with his hands as he works them under the fabric and glides them over hot, smooth skin.

It’s not long before his body is screaming for more and oh lord does every fibre in him know he wants it. By now they’ve gotten past just kissing and he feels Sidney’s mutual desire against his boxer shorts. It’s about this point where Sidney usually goes down on him. Or Evgeni wakes up.

Neither of those things happens though. And really, he doesn’t want them to. Instead he lets his hands slide down and… well, he’d never gotten to his point in his dreams before so this is new. But it’s fantastic, and apparently Evgeni’s fantastic because Sidney is whimpering and angling for more and boy does it feel good to have him completely undone beneath him—

“Geno… d-do you have condoms?”

Evgeni’s hands stop abruptly just as things are beginning to get a little damp. The question catches him completely off guard. What the fuck, who cares about _those_ in a _dream_ —

Holy shit.

Deeply embarrassed doesn’t begin to describe Evgeni Malkin’s mindset at the moment. Scratch the fact that he can’t tell the difference between his consciousness and his subconsciousness. He has his fucking hand inside his captain’s underwear and he’s fucking jerking the guy off—

And he fucking likes it!

At this point Evgeni realizes that he has several options. One: he could suffocate Sid with a pillow until he stops moving so that this never gets out to anyone. Two: he could run out of the hotel room screaming. Three: he could stop and tell Sid to go back to his own bed. Four: they could continue as they are and make sweet, forbidden, beautiful love.

The two extremes seemed to favour Evgeni the most, and he wasn’t particularly fond of murder so number four seemed like the most viable (and legal, at least in most parts of them world) option.

All this crosses his mind in about five seconds, barely leaving him a socially respectable amount of time to answer Sidney’s question.

He actually has a strip of condoms in his bag in addition to the one that he carries in his wallet. Because you never know, right? Okay fine, maybe it was the same strip of condoms that he had been carrying around since the beginning of the season. But it’s not like opportunities haven’t presented themselves, it’s just that when he’s at the club with the guys and they’re all trying to score with some TNA he just begins to feel lethargic and a little unmotivated…

Oh.

Fuck.

 

Okay, so maybe he might be gay. And maybe he’s wanted to make sweet, forbidden, beautiful love with his captain for a while now. Maybe might be an understatement, if the throbbing bulge he’s sporting is any indication.

But he scores now. And hey, maybe that girl from the autograph signing was right after all.

Fuck _yeah_.


End file.
